


Second Chances

by Sleepless_Malice



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Eregion, Friendship, Gen, Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Rehabilitation of Escaped Thralls, Second Age, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: Cendir, a former thrall of Morgoth, finds home and success in the newly established city of Ost-in-Edhil as a smith - until his secret is discovered.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Original Dwarf Character(s), Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Original Male Character(s), Original Elf Character(s) & Original Dwarf Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 42
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2020





	Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/gifts).



**Second Chances**

* * *

Rain hammers against the windows of the tavern, mixing with the sound of drunken merriment in a language Cendir still barely understands. Regardless, he prefers the drinking houses run by Dwarves, of late more than ever, for there he remains unbothered by anyone.

The Old Stone Raven by the narrow bridge is a vibrant place, often crowded, its walls decorated with illustrated Dwarven tales. It’s the inn Cendir visits for years now, brought to his attention by one of his Dwarven friends.

Ost-in-Edhil lacks little, taverns least of all. They are dotted all across the city, just like stars spotting the night sky. Some of them are little more than a bar and some stools, mostly frequented directly after work, whilst others feature adjoined guesthouses, serving decent meals throughout the day. It’s unsurprising that especially those have increased in numbers in the past years – Eregion’s flourishing trade brings many wealthy visitors.

The Old Stone Raven is the oldest inn run by Dwarves in Ost-in-Edhil, famous for its dark ale, and the succulent roasted pork that is served with mashed potatoes and handfuls of onions. The guests are greeted by a large raven hewn into stone at the entrance, its beak polished by the fingers of superstitious folk; it is said that touching it brings luck. Cendir has not touched it once.

He had arrived at the inn before sunset, sitting down by a small stone table in a corner, just large enough for two to sit companionably together – not that he expects company tonight. He simply wants to enjoy the delight of being able to go to taverns for a meal before heading home across the city to avoid the silence.

Due to the abundant trade, the wealth of Eregion keeps growing – and each and every inhabitant profits from it. Whilst taxes are imposed on trading foreigners, all of Ost-in-Edhil’s residents are freed from any tax expenses. Hence decent food is cheap, even in inns and taverns, regardless if they are run by Elves or Dwarves, as long as they are full citizens of Ost-in-Edhil.

Many Dwarves have found a temporary home here, establishing a little community of their own. Their hospitality is unrivaled; each and every person is welcomed in their inns, being treated respectfully and remaining unbothered. That is what Cendir has grown most fond of, as it’s not always the case for inns run by the Elves. Many of his kin have a nosey streak; whilst they pretend to be open-minded, mistrust still reigns many hearts. Gossiping culture and skepticism both had reached its peak in Gondolin; each dark corner in the white streets had seemed to hold mystery, the veil of the night muffling whispered secrets.

Cendir’s eyes snap open at the rumble of a thunder – he can’t remember when he had closed them. He shakes his head, slightly annoyed by having been carried away by his thoughts in public. As soon as the thunderstorm reaches its peak, more guests pour into the inn; Dwarves, a few Edain. As it so often is, he remains the only Elvish guest, for which he is glad. The past has taught him to be wary of his own kin.

As he sips his ale he lets his eyes wander the tavern. A chubby dwarf lady with a beard longer than his own hair is smoking a pipe together with her friends, laughing merrily. Whilst other survivors have come to dread noisy places, he has come to loathe the wretched silence. He spots Fáinn and Fengr in a small alcove by the fire, whom he greets across the distance with a nod. The twins run a woodcraft workshop together, which he had visited a couple of times after moving into his own apartment. 

Often enough, Cendir can’t believe he has become a part of Ost-in-Edhil’s society – an active part, with friends and acquaintances both, and even after decades, he’s still not quite used to the conveniences of his new life. If he wants to, he could buy himself a meal every day.

His journey had started long ago, with nothing but filthy rags on his body, when he had taken the chance to escape his drunken masters. Although if he’s honest, only in the past fifty years has it truly become a journey. In the dim light of the tavern he allows himself to reflect on the past, struggling against the urge to close his eyes again.

Before coming to Eregion in search of happiness as so many others had, it had been many months of hard work in the fields; an idle game of hide and seek, until his past had been found out again – and he had had to run. Those like him – survivors of Morgoth’s cruelty, weren’t treated kindly by anyone – or so he had thought before he had met Celebrimbor. Then, he had roamed the forests, and sometimes ambushes from other hungry souls – equally poor as himself – had happened. Occasionally, their desperation had surpassed his own and everything he possessed, little enough as that was, was taken from him.

Afterward, he had found work somewhere else; he always did, being unaffected by the limits of exhaustion, a trait many grew quite fond of in the past, ignoring his inability to hold anyone’s gaze for longer than a few moments. So it went, for too many years to count, years in which he had always been alone. His brother and many of his childhood friends who had crossed the ice with him had found a home first in Nevrast, then a more permanent dwelling in Gondolin. None had survived Morgoth’s assault of the Hidden City, and often enough in the past, Cendir had wondered if that had been a kinder fate.

His mind wanders from the past back to the present. The day had been uneventful – and also unproductive, as with so many days of late. It leads to a strange form of exhaustion, which is far worse than what true exhaustion feels like. Just as every other craftsman he loves busy days with many customers; working long after midnight in his smithy to finish the commissions he had received, black hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. He has specialized in jewelry, for he can’t stand the loud and monotonous sound of steel being beaten. Forging weapons reminds him of his past where he had been forced to forge dark swords, ready to slay his kin.

A loud thump of a jug on his table tears Cendir out of his musings. His head shoots upwards, gaze landing on a sturdy dwarf. He is absolutely soaked from the rain, his curly red hair with silver streaks clinging to his furry cheeks as he grins crookedly at Cendir.

“Good evening, lad!” The Dwarf says in his highly accented Sindarin, his voice a deep rumble, long before Cendir can even think of anything to say at all.

“Nolim!” Cendir exclaims, surprised, since he hadn’t expected to meet his friend tonight.

Nolim is a frequent guest in The Old Stone Raven, but of late, his days seem to never end. His workshop is located next to Cendir’s own in the Alley of Smiths, a narrow lane meandering through the craftsmen’s quarter of Ost-in-Edhil until it spills into the town hall square. Over the course of time – and despite all odds – they had become acquaintances first, and soon enough true friends, of the sort Cendir hasn’t had since Gondolin’s fall. 

He is of the Firebeards, the clan whose metal work is famous for its tiny intricate patterns, an art Cendir has admired from the beginning of their acquaintance. Silver beads decorated with such a pattern are woven into Nolim’s beard as is typical for the Firebeards, just as the thick leather vest he always wears is.

“Sit down, sit down.” Cendir gestures towards the empty chair opposite of him, more than happy to share a pint or two with his friend.

Nolim laughs, the sound matching the distant thunder outside. “Don’t be so hasty,” he says, removing his coat and hanging it on the convenient hook on the wall. “Damn, the heat and humidity in here is worse than in the public bathhouse.”

As if to make a point, he fans his face with his thick fingers, each one adorned with several rings.

Cendir grins, teeth showing. It had taken the money of his first five commissions to have his teeth, destroyed from years of malnutrition, fully restored. “I didn’t know you’re one to frequent the bathhouse.”

Nolim raises an eyebrow, then laughs again, loud enough that those near-by give him a look. “How would you know if you never frequent them yourself?”

 _Damn it._ Cendir doesn’t say it, regretting the words that left his mouth so carelessly. Of course he doesn’t visit the bathhouse – it’s hard to conceal the treacherous scars when naked.

He squeezes Cendir's his shoulder. “Eh, never mind, okay?” Nolim says, finally sitting down. “But as a matter of fact I don’t go there. I don’t think you folk will react fondly to seeing a fat dwarf naked.”

Cendir nearly spits out the ale, the situation coming to life all too vividly in his mind.

Nolim looks across the busy taproom for the serving maid, who smiles when she spots him looking.

“Rán, two more pints for us,” Nolim calls, making wide gestures with his arms. “If you’d be so kind.”

“Of course,” she laughs, giving Nolim her most beautiful smile.

“She likes you,” Cendir remarks. Just like him, Nolim has remained unmarried, with the difference that Nolim’s life has been exemplary: born into a wealthy family as the youngest child, educated by the best standards, including having spent a year abroad with distant relatives of another clan to polish his skills in working with gems.

Nolim’s attention is back on him, his cheeks already glowing from the heat. “Nah, I’m not her type.”

He gives his friend a quizzical look. By dwarven standards, Nolim is considered extremely beautiful with his long thick hair and beard. On top of that, he’s wealthy – the house in Ost-in-Edhil where he lives is his own, as is the one in his hometown.

“Wrong gender.” Nolim merely shrugs his shoulders. “She prefers the lasses. It’s obvious from the way she braids her beard.”

“I never knew.”

Nolim shrugs. “You never asked.”

It’s becoming warm inside the inn indeed, even to Cendir, who’s always freezing. A fire burns brightly in the far corner, and each table is decorated with several candles, whilst above them a chandelier with many more candles sways. By now the place is packed.

Rán winds through the crowd, setting two pints down on the table. “There you go, lads. Enjoy yourselves.”

“Thank you,” they both say.

Nolim lifts the pint to his lips, quite urgently so. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Cendir says with a smile, lifting his jug.

“Ahh.” Nolim wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after drinking but bits of foam cling to his beard. “What a treat.”

“You’ve not been home yet?” Cendir inquires although he knows the answer, having heard the doorbell in Nolim’s workshop ring constantly today. On some days, potential customers even queue before the entrance.

“No.” Nolim shakes his head, sending remnants of foam flying in all directions. “I came directly here, thirsty as I was. I was so busy that I forgot to drink anything in the afternoon. And then,” he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “When I was just about to call it a day, another customer – an Elf from Lindon, quite wealthy judging from the clothes he wore, bumped into the workshop, commissioning a most intricate bridal gift.”

Cendir’s eyes grow wide. “Congratulations!” he exclaims, excitement ringing in his voice. “That is good news indeed. I’m happy for you.” 

To be commissioned for wedding accessories is considered the greatest honor, as weddings among the Elves are rare. At least his friend’s efforts are appreciated and his creations still bought, whilst Cendir’s own trade has almost become non-existent in the past few weeks.

“Aye, thank you, lad,” Nolim says, drinking. The pint is almost empty. “But to be honest – I don’t understand it.”

Cendir inclines his head, uncertain of what his friend is referring to. “What is it that you don’t understand?”

Nolim’s expression turns serious. “All of it. I mean, your creations are far superior to my own – and no, before you even think about denying it, you know it’s true,” he says, playing with the beads in his beard. “I know that. Everyone knows that. And if that’s not enough - I am a dwarf, and even here people are still full of prejudices against my race. And yet, I’ve got twenty times as many customers as you of late.”

Cendir shrugs, hiding the nervous play of his fingers below the table. “It’s your style they fancy.”

Nolim sets down the jug with a thump, staring. “Bullshit. Ridiculous bullshit.”

Cendir has been dreading the prospect of that very conversation for a while now. He sighs, hoping that Nolim will let the matter rest if he agrees. “Yes.”

“You’ve got nothing more to say to this than ‘yes’?” Nolim says, clearly angered. It rings in his voice, shines in his green eyes in a way that goes straight to Cendir’s guts. “Something has happened, and I want to know what and why.”

Despite the fact that his friend only means well, Cendir awkwardly looks away, unable to hold Nolim’s gaze. He’s been practicing for years now to rid himself of that bane of his past, for it is considered bad manners to avert the eyes during conversations, but has never fully managed it.

Nolim knows the greater parts of Cendir’s past, but not every little detail; he had only vaguely spoken about the resentment of his own kin. Cendir would prefer if it stays that way, and yet, even as he thinks it, he knows that Nolim won’t let the matter rest – it’s said that Dwarves are able to dig out the oldest secrets from a soul.

“Rumors spreading like fire through the city are the cause of it,” Cendir states, his throat suddenly dry and constricted.

Nolim wrinkles his nose, regarding Cendir. “What rumors?”

Cendir lowers his voice significantly. Although the tavern is mostly frequented by Dwarves, he is unwilling that anyone overhears their conversation. “About my past. I told you once …”

Nolim crosses his arms before his chest. “Past is past, present is present,” he states, and immediately, Cendir gestures him to keep his voice down, even if he doubts anyone overhears their words with the noise around them. A group just behind them are belting out the words of a drinking song, sorely off-tune.

“Sorry,” Nolim says.

“It’s okay,” Cendir says, forcing himself to smile. There’s no kinder and more helpful soul among the craftsmen in the Alley of Smiths than Nolim: be it advice, raw material, or tools and instruments – he’s always willing to help out. “Past is past, present is present – I wish it were that easy.”

Nolim narrows his eyes. “Isn’t it?”

The addition of ‘in your culture’ goes unsaid. Victims of torture and abuse are treated quite differently by the Dwarves.

Cendir shakes his head. “No. Not for everyone,” he sighs, wetting his throat with a sip of ale. “In fact, Celebrimbor is a rare exception, in that matter just as in everything else. He knows my story from the very beginning; not telling him had felt wrong to me. Apart from him …,” he draws in a deep breath, fiddling with the beer mat now to keep his fingers occupied with something. “I almost never told anyone else about this. A few of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain know because I wanted them to be aware of it and trusted them enough – and you.”

“Celebrimbor is exceptional indeed,” Nolim agrees, rubbing his beard. “I didn’t give your secret away and I doubt that Celebrimbor did...”

“Nor did the others,” Cendir interrupts firmly. “It’s not them either.”

Disbelief spreads across Nolim’s face. “So you are implying …” Nolim’s whispers.

Cendir nods. He won’t lie to his friend. “Yes. That’s what I am implying. Somebody found out my secret – and readily gave it away, knowing well what effects it’ll have among my people.”

Anger and disbelief flashes across Nolim’s face, so intense that Cendir has to look away. “You are fucking kidding me, right?” Nolim shouts.

“I wish I were,” he sighs, looking at his trembling fingers. “But no. It’s a sad and bitter truth. I heard vague words said in front of my workshop, not that I ever needed to hear it in the first place. The decrease in customers all of a sudden is telling enough.”

“I can’t believe it.” Nolim balls his hands into fists. “And there are people out there who punish the survivors of these cruelties anew by shunning them? Punish them twice over instead of helping them?”

Cendir empties his pint. “Yes. More than you think. Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-Mírdain are open-minded and of good heart, something many of my kin severely lack. They are a superstitious people, through and through. They believe I weave dark magic into my creations; black art I have learned in the mines below the towers of Angband; jewels full of spells that cause great harm. Unsurprising that they won’t buy from me anymore, don’t you think?”

Nolim is outraged. “Idiots! All of them. You must speak about this matter to Celebrimbor. I’ll be very discontent about it, I assure you that. You know the decree of the guild as well as I do; the rules hewn into the stone of Ost-in-Edhil’s town hall. What is happening to you is as wrong as anything can be. It’s against the law to sabotage another craftsman’s art and this is sabotage of the worst kind.”

Cendir knows that his friend is right about everything, yet his mouth remains tightly shut, apart from the sigh he doesn’t manage to suppress in time. Although he conceals it well, he’s still struggling to live his daily life; there’s little strength left to fight against ghosts of his past.

Nolim regards him for a while, then asks, “You aren’t going to do anything about it, are you?”

Cendir shakes his head, sadness coiling in his stomach. He feels apologetic for disappointing his friend like this. “No.”

After that, the topic remains untouched, for which Cendir is grateful. They share another pint together, discussing details about Nolim’s latest commission and how to bring the ideas to life.

* * *

The knock at the door of Celebrimbor’s workshop, located at the far end of the Alley of Smiths, comes unexpectedly. The night outside is pitch-black except for the orange glowing streetlamps, the lanes long deserted by any crowds. Judging from both facts, it’s long past midnight.

He should have retired hours ago, but Celebrimbor’s sleeping schedule has always been odd – he is most productive at night. If he doesn’t work he likes to wander the empty streets, embracing the chill of the night after the hot humidity of the forge. On nights like these it’s the closest Celebrimbor gets to peace, the knots of his restless mind slowly beginning to open. His are the hours of dawn when everything lays quiet and the world is just about to wake, the dark stone of Ost-in-Edhil glowing like smoldering embers in the first rays of the sun.

Celebrimbor looks up from his papers. “Come in,” he says, rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes. “The door is always open.”

The old wood sighs as the door creaks open, and his gaze lands on a sturdy Dwarf, shielded from the cold by a dark green cape of rough-spun wool. It’s Nolim, of the Firebeards, a distant relative of Narvi with whom Celebrimbor spends much time of late. Although the Dwarf’s workshop is located at the other end of the Alley of Smiths, Celebrimbor knows him, even if not well (or at least not as well as Celebrimbor would like to know all other craftsmen). Regardless, he knows a few things about Nolim as Narvi never stops to speak of his kindness.

“Master Dwarf, what brings you to me at this nightly hour?” he asks, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. He had rather expected some other member of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, who would know about his odd sleeping schedule. Regardless, his door stands always open, for everyone – just as every other door should be. The decree signed by all the master smiths of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain forbids barred doors to prevent that anyone feels excluded.

Nolim inclines his head, holding Celebrimbor’s gaze steadily. “Lord, I need to have a word with you.”

 _‘At this hour?’_ Celebrimbor bites back the sharp remark, wondering what troubles Nolim so much that it can’t wait till tomorrow. Slight unease begins to coil and twist in his guts – the visit is no mere coincidence, otherwise he could have come hours ago.

There’s exactly one way to find it out. “You may, as long as you let go of the ‘lord’,” he says, standing up from his clogged desk. He had wanted to organize it weeks ago. “Celebrimbor for you, just as for everyone else.”

Various documents are scattered wildly across the desk. Open books alternate with ink-stained drawings of arrow-heads and circlets, calculations and chemical formulas. Quill and ink sit on top of everything. 

Nolim meets Celebrimbor’s gaze, stepping inside the dimly lit room. “I don’t want to interrupt you for long, but something has been bothering me for a few days now,” he states, his voice measured and firm.

Celebrimbor gestures towards the empty chair opposite his desk. “Sit down, if you want.”

Nolim shakes his head, trailing a finger on the table’s edge. “I prefer to stand.”

The motion stirs the settled dust, and for a moment Celebrimbor watches it flitting in the candlelight. It’s really time to clean up that mess, tomorrow.

Celebrimbor nods towards Nolim. The hour is late, and from that alone, he already knows it’s not an easy conversation he will face. The way Nolim holds himself only adds to this impression, not quite matching the firmness of his words. “What can I do for you?” he asks, unwilling to waste their time with idle small-talk, quite certain that Nolim approves of that. “Have you encountered resentments towards your race?”

Sadly enough narrow-mindedness still prevails in some peoples’ minds, though incidences between Dwarves and Elves have become rarer over the cause of time.

Nolim shakes his head, remorse flickering in his gaze as he looks back at Celebrimbor. “Not more than the ordinary, no,” he rasps, his voice a deep rumble. “In fact, I can’t complain. My business flourishes of late. I’m not here on my behalf – well, sort of I am, because I fear otherwise you’ll never hear of it. My friends are dear to me.”

Celebrimbor’s eyes grow wide before he manages to conceal it. “So somebody has asked you to come to me?” The thought that somebody is afraid to speak to him personally fills Celebrimbor with unease and sadness both; it’s exactly what he had never wanted when he had become Eregion’s lord. First and foremost he’s a craftsman, then an Elf, a friend, and relative, and often enough, he wishes that he’s no lord at all. He doesn’t like the fact that men and women flock to him for his status alone; he doesn’t like the prospect of anyone being intimidated by him.

Again, the dwarf shakes his head and Celebrimbor sees Nolim’s fingers play in front of him, a habit he’s not entirely unfamiliar with. The Dwarf is nervous. “Not quite.”

“Are you certain you don’t want to sit?” Celebrimbor gestures towards the two chairs and the small table at the end of the room. He had brought them to his workshop a while ago since he almost never is to be found in his office in the town hall. “I was about to let work rest for tonight anyways, feeling ready for a drink.”

The Dwarf lets his eyes drift towards the small sitting area, wrinkling his nose. “Whisky if you have it?”

“Certainly,” Celebrimbor says, nodding. “In a minute. Make yourself comfortable in the meantime.”

The rustling of Nolim’s clothes reaches his ear as he fetches two glasses and the bottle, thankful that there are at least some clean cups. He returns, placing the glasses and the bottle of whiskey on the table, then sits down.

“Thank you,” Nolim says, forcing himself not to slump into the plush chair, Celebrimbor observes. He’s equally unwilling to indulge in small-talk. “It’s about my friend, Cendir. He doesn’t know that I am here. I haven’t promised him not to approach you, but I am quite certain he does not approve of me being here. In fact, I think he would have tried to stop me. The decision to come here wasn’t an easy one; I slept over the matter for a couple of days, asking myself what I can do – which is, sadly, not much, given that I am a dwarf. Regardless, this issue needs to be addressed.”

“I’m glad to hear that he found a friend in you,” Celebrimbor says, pouring whiskey into the glasses, far more than he usually would. “Of all inhabitants, he needs a friend most of all.”

Celebrimbor raises his glass, which Nolim mimics. “To friendship.”

“To friendship,” Nolim repeats, smiling that crook smile of his.

Nolim’s glass is already empty when he sets it down, Celebrimbor observes.

“I know that he both needs and deserves friendship greatly,” Nolim agrees, drawing in a deep breath. “He shared parts of his past with me long ago – and that’s exactly why I am here. My apologies if my words shall offend you: is it true, that them – former thralls as he calls himself – are usually regarded with mistrust by your kin; are shunned, and punished for what they had to endure?”

Celebrimbor sighs for he feels miserable about how former thralls are still treated by most of his kin. “I wish I could say it’s a lie – but sadly it’s not. It is said that the surviving thralls of Angband are corrupted; weak of heart since most of them did not flee, even when they could.” (*)

He had never believed a single word of that himself.

“But Cendir fled,” Nolim states, rubbing his beard. “And the rest, those who remained – who can judge them for that? Surely, a worse fate awaited them if caught again.”

Celebrimbor sips his whiskey, watching the disbelief in Nolim’s eyes. “Apparently so, yes – or so I think. If I am honest, I do not know,” he says, letting his eyes fall shut momentarily. Opening them again, he asks, “I don’t know how familiar you are with the history of my family?”

“Well, mostly I only know the bits and pieces that Cendir told me,” Nolim states, trailing his finger along the edge of the table. “I guess not much, apart from that once it was huge, for Elves.”

Celebrimbor empties his drink, refilling both glasses immediately after. “One of my uncles was caught by Morgoth, then chained to a mountain and left there to rot. He was the eldest son and heir, our leader – our hope.” His voice breaks, just slightly. Thinking about Maedhros’ fate still has him shuddering, for grave had been his injuries when he returned. Celebrimbor sees Nolim’s throat working. He’s considering not to elaborate further on the matter, yet figures it is necessary to tell all the rest. “After long years of captivity, he was rescued from Morgoth’s claws. When he returned he was a shadow of his former self. He never spoke about his time in Angband, at least not to me. He survived, and recovered – but never healed.”

The glance Nolim gives him is apologetic. “But was he shunned?” he asks, quirking his eyebrow.

Celebrimbor shakes his head, recalling how Maedhros had been treated. “No. Never. Not by anyone, not for that at least.”

There had been arguments of a different sort among the brothers when Maedhros had decided to give the crown to Fingolfin, but that had been a different matter entirely, not relevant for the conversation at hand.

“Pardon me for being so blunt,” Nolim rasps, hints of anger clouding his face. If not used to it a Dwarf’s honesty can be quite unsettling. “Why is your uncle’s fate any different to the surviving thralls of Angband, those escaped or those being freed after the War of Wrath?”

Celebrimbor wishes to give a better answer. “Don’t ask me, ask them,” he says, shrugging. He had never understood the resentment towards those once captured by the enemy. According to his beliefs everybody deserves a second chance, those having suffered most of all. In Nargothrond he had spent many nights discussing the topic with both Finrod and Orodreth, offering a nice diversion to the persisting narrow-mindedness

Nolim crosses his arms before his chest. “That’s why I am here.”

Celebrimbor inclines his head. “Go on,” he says, urgency tinting his voice now.

“Well,” Nolim begins, playing with the silver beads yet again. “Commissions of Cendir’s work have decreased in the past weeks, drastically, to the extent that they are non-existent, whereas I – a dwarf – have to decline commissions for months because half of Eregion wants to spend its money. Cendir’s craftsmanship is far superior to my own. No offense, but I’d be even so bold to say that his skill with gems matches your own - and yet, his workshop remains empty. And I was wondering why.”

“Did you talk to him?” Celebrimbor inquires, suspecting he already knows the answer.

“Of course,” Nolim says, drinking. “He admitted quite reluctantly that his past has been revealed by someone and has since become public knowledge.”

“Don’t tell me that –” The words are out of Celebrimbor’s mouth before he realizes it, a mere whisper of shock. It’s accompanied by a sickening of the stomach for Celebrimbor knows that at least one of the unquestioned rules of civilization had been defied.

Nolim stands, hands gripping the edge of the table, anger burning brightly in his eyes now. “That’s exactly what I am telling you. Someone disclosed Cendir’s past for reasons I can only speculate about. Fact is: the news spread fast and wide, of that the person made certain. He’ll become an outlaw once more, it has already begun. Not somewhere else; it’s happening right here, in this city.”

Nolim’s words are like a stab to Celebrimbor’s guts. Prominent above all else in his heart is to create a working environment of equal rights and open doors, for he believes that combined effort and knowledge is beneficial for each individual and the realm itself. So far, it has proved to be true – Eregion’s growth, both in wealth and population, is extraordinary. Various races mostly live in relative peace and harmony together in Ost-in-Edhil – Elves, Dwarves, Men, former thralls, or so Celebrimbor at least had thought and hoped.

Celebrimbor slams his bare hand on the table, unwilling and unable to conceal his anger. He’s furious, in a way he hadn’t been for decades. “Ridiculous nonsense! My kin has always feared the treachery of those who had been thralls in Angband, for it is said that Morgoth chained their wills to his and they stray only to come back to him. But Thangorodrim was put to ruin and ashes in the War of Wrath long ago. Morgoth and all his minions were defeated. If I learned anything in Nargothrond it is that thralls should and can be treated kindly. I wish we were better than letting mistrust reign our hearts and minds.” A sonorous sigh leaves Celebrimbor’s lips, anger slowly giving way to exhaustion. “This has to find an end!”

Nolim nods, smiling as he sits down again. “I knew you were the man to come to.”

Celebrimbor gulps down the whiskey. “I’m not mistaken to assume that you have further information on this matter? But before you disclose it, I have to thank you for approaching me with this topic. Sadly enough, I can’t have my eyes and ears everywhere as much as I would like that.”

“That’s what you have us Dwarves for,” Nolim says, leaning back in his chair, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “We always have an open ear for various sorts of gossip. But that aside: yes, I have further information, together with proof and several witnesses, otherwise, I wouldn’t have come. After the conversation with Cendir I spoke with a few trusted friends about the matter and bade them to keep their ears open on their journeys. I wish I could have done it myself but you know, it’s public knowledge that Cendir and I are on friendly terms so the outcome would not have been the same. It didn’t take them a week to find out a name or two.”

Celebrimbor’s hands are trembling, dreading the answer he’s about to hear. “Do I know them?”

Nolim nods hastily. “I bet you do.”

Celebrimbor’s heart sinks. He had hoped that those responsible for giving Cendir’s secret away were mere acquaintances of his at best.

“Cendir’s secret was discovered by mere coincidence,” Nolim begins to explain, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. By now the parts of his cheeks that aren’t covered by his beard are glowing red. “Whilst riding out alone, he tore the sleeve of his shirt on a branch. And since he was alone, and the forest is usually deserted in the early morning anyway, he didn’t bother to change immediately, revealing the ugly scar on his upper arm where once his number was inked into his kin. That must have been when Acharon discovered it. Perhaps, he has suspected something long ago, and hence obtained the final proof; perhaps not. It’s only speculation on my side. What I know for certain though is that Acharon did not waste time to inform Teithon, who made certain that the news spread far and wide.”

Celebrimbor’s jaw drops. Nolim’s words sting like a blow to his face. “Out of everyone, Acharon?” His voice shakes with anger and his hands ball into fists. Acharon is one of the founding smiths of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the one who had so much supported Celebrimbor’s wish that Dwarves were welcomed in the guild. he’s no mere acquaintance. Celebrimbor considers – or rather had considered him a friend. 

The master smiths made the rules of the guild together; discussed them for many days and nights and signed the decree written on parchment with golden thread. Hence, the city stands open to anybody willing to help it flourish, as does the guild, if certain prerequisites such as loyalty to fellow craftsmen and customers are fulfilled for a distinct amount of time. Sabotage of another craftsman’s work is forbidden, as is discrimination by race, gender, and beliefs.

“Apparently so, yes.” Nolim’s tone is mild as if to comfort Celebrimbor in his obvious misery.

Celebrimbor isn’t known for his flaring temper, yet he doesn’t manage to keep it at bay anymore. “This will have consequences once morning comes. Acharon will be a member of the guild for the longest time. And hence, I’ll promote Cendir to become a full member of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain although he never officially applied, to prove that everyone truly is welcomed in this realm.” His mouth is dry, and yet he speaks on without interruption. “Cendir is not the only former thrall who has found a new life in Ost-in-Edhil; there are many more, cherished and valuable inhabitants whose names I won’t disclose. And Cendir – well, he has proven a loyal craftsman for so long that we all wondered why he never filed the application to become a full member of the guild. That will be announced in the annual public meeting next month.”

“Perhaps,” Nolim carefully ventures, inclining his head. “It is a wise idea that you speak to Cendir first?”

“But of course,” Celebrimbor says, smiling. “Though it will not only be me. _We_ will speak to him about this soon.”

Nolim narrows his eyes. “We?”

“Without you, this matter most likely would have only come to my awareness when it was already too late. And apart from that, I assume that the company of a true friend is always beneficial. After all, there’s something to celebrate afterward, don’t you think?”

Celebrimbor sees Nolim’s lips curve into a grin. “Aye,” he agrees, gratitude spread across his entire face. Then, he refills their glasses and lifts his own into the air. “To friendship.”

“To friendship,” Celebrimbor says, returning the smile.

*

**Author's Note:**

> (*) _But ever the Noldor feared most the treachery of those of their own kin, who had been thralls in Angband; for Morgoth used some of these for his evil purposes, and feigning to give them liberty sent them abroad, but their wills were chained to his, and they strayed only to come back to him again. (Silmarillion)_
> 
> Thanks to [raiyana @ AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana) for the help with my OCs & intitial discussion & to [bluehair @ AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluehair/pseuds/bluehair) for giving the first draft a read, and also to [fernstrike @ AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernstrike/pseuds/Fernstrike) for the beta read :)


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